


Morning After

by sparklebitca



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, NSYNC, Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M, Multiple Crossovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 13:15:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17366534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparklebitca/pseuds/sparklebitca
Summary: So, like, the morning after scene in QaF 1x01 when Brian and Justin wake up?  Except instead of Brian, JC Chasez, and instead of Justin, Harry Potter.  Because, you know . . . why not?





	Morning After

**Author's Note:**

> written around 2004 for some bizarre reason

God, is that the alarm already? Every hotel chain in the world must buy their clock radios from the same distributor, because JC could swear he's heard the exact same buzzing at the Marriott in Seattle and the Waldorf in Manhattan. He isn't awake, he's not ready for that at all, and he thwaps blindly at the snooze button with an outstretched arm. It falls blessedly silent, and he collapses onto his back.

Mmm, warm bed . . . it's morning, the sunlight just barely streaming through the windows to reflect yellowy-red behind his closed eyelids, and it's so good to lie here, hovering drowsily on the brink of awareness. Soft bed, soft warm blankets, and a soft warm arm making its tentative way across his chest, brushing over his shoulders, then settling to hold him lightly. He sighs contentedly and rolls onto his side, into the embrace, and brings his own arm around the boy.

Wait a minute. What the fuck?

He starts back, his eyes squinting, peering at the boy next to him in the bed, who tilts up his chin and gives JC a slow smile like spreading honey. He's young – damn, is he young.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

The smile doesn't disappear entirely, but some of the shine fades a bit.

"You said I could stay."

JC thinks furiously for a minute, then remembers with a rush – well, sorta remembers.

"Right. Your aunt and uncle. They think you're at a friend's."

It's vaguely returning to him now; he had picked the boy up on some flashy street corner, all hot and innocent and trying to act so casual, wiry-thin with wild black hair and green eyes that held a challenge too attractive to ignore. He had brought him back, and – yeah, ok, right, it had been the kid's first time, which had turned JC on like nothing in a long time, and now that he thinks about it, he does feel kind of sated and warm in his groin. And afterwards, something about why the kid couldn't leave like a normal one-nighter, like he's supposed to be at boarding school or something; JC can't really pull up the details.

And oh yeah, speaking of details, is he crazy or did the kid tell him last night that he's all of seventeen? Ok, that really is almost too young for him. But the age of consent in the UK is sixteen, right? So that's ok . . . pretty much . . .

He levers himself up on an elbow, shading his eyes with one hand, and scowls when he surveys the state of the hotel room. It's a wreck, utterly trashed, couch cushions and pillows everywhere, bottles and chairs lying haphazardly on the floor. "Jesus Christ, what the hell happened?"

The boy laughs and turns his head to answer. JC holds up a finger, frowning.

"Don't tell me. I was doing handstands."

He feels the heat of the kid's body next to him, angling slightly in towards him, the warm breath on his bare shoulder.

"And juggling." Softer, confidentially, "you're not very good."

"Shit." It's not like he can't afford to trash a hotel suite or fifty, but he doesn't particularly dig the hazy fog partially obscuring his memory. He always forgets how very susceptible he is to hallucinogens and the like, and he always, always forgets - more not than often, he receives the like. "Why do I do these things?" He holds up a finger again. "I'll tell you why. It was that fucking pig Carlos. He told me that was E. That wasn't E. That was some shit they cooked up in a bathtub in Tijuana." Geez, he's really fucking foul-mouthed this morning. He should lock it down, shouldn't be a bad influence on the pretty schoolboy in his bed. 

The schoolboy who's still leaning in towards him, smiling as he says, "That's why you should never take drugs that aren't prescribed by a mediwiz- um, a doctor, or recommended by a reliable chemist."

JC stares at him for a second, eyebrows knit in consternation. Then he shakes his head and laughs. "What are you, a public service announcement?" The kid looks like he doesn't quite get it, turns his head away slightly, and JC dismisses it. "Get dressed. I'll drive you home."

"You can't." JC looks at him questioningly. "Justin has the car," the kid continues in a tone that says JC should already know this fact.

Well, he didn't know. "Why's he got it?" He's trying to remember, he sorta remembers a club, and Justin dancing, and hey, did Justin drop him and the kid back at the hotel and take off in JC's brand-new Mini? Dammit, stupid little happy pills.

"You were too high-"

"I know what happened, I was there." Yeah, he was, hypothetically, if he goes on this kid's word. "I remember everything," he looks at the kid, who has his head cocked to the side, and a flash of memory hits, skin on skin on blue velvet covers, lifting long legs up and over his shoulders while stroking the smooth muscle of thigh and stomach, leaning forward to claim the hot and open mouth with his lips and his tongue, lining up, pushing in, slowly, tightly, hearing the low gasps, the hitched moans, a pulsing music, thrusting up and deep, " . . . perfectly." Hell. Why can't he – he scrunches up his face in an effort to – nah, it's no use. "What was your name again?"

"Harry," the kid murmurs, and he's looking down and away, and oh, JC feels like shit now, and that wasn't in the game plan.

"Yeah . . . right." He flops back down onto the bed. What a morning, what a fucking morning, and doesn't he have some press to do today? That maybe he'd like his car for? Yeah, Timberlake, thanks.

Harry's hovering over him again, an anxious look on his face, and hey, that's a hell of a scar on his forehead. JC remembers tracing it over and over with a gentle finger – or maybe he doesn't remember that, maybe that's just what he wants to do now.

"Can I take a shower?"

Oh, right. Morning-type things.

"Yeah, but hurry up. It's through there," and he waves his hand in the direction that he hopes the bathroom is, "I think." The kid slides out from under the sheets, and JC glimpses a long pale stretch of back leading down to a sweetly curved ass. He groans softly; his cock is twitching into a full-fledged hard-on. Like he hasn't already corrupted this kid plenty. He really shouldn't join him in the shower, he totally should not.

But dammit, what good is pop-stardom if you're just gonna wallow in apologies and regrets? Screw it. He eases out of bed, naked and lean, and stretching slightly sore limbs with a luxurious ache, he follows after Harry.


End file.
